


Revenge

by mossologist



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13807581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossologist/pseuds/mossologist
Summary: Season 3. A vignette in which Rimmer seeks revenge for the camphor-wood trunk Lister burned while marooned in 'Marooned'. The Cat and Kryten are forced to take sides. Okay, Kryten takes sides, the Cat just looks at himself in the mirror all day long. Practical jokes and afternoon tea on the observation deck complete the farce. Rated T for disgusting insults.





	Revenge

"Oh, I totally agree with you, sir. He's a complete smeeeeeeeee heeeeeeeeeeee..." Kryten attempted to comfort Rimmer as per his operations manual. Section 31 paragraph 2.6 stated that any colleagues experiencing emotional difficulties must be shown the utmost support, just in case they had a repeat of the travesty of 2296, which saw the slaughter of 26 crew-members in a tragically preventable sewage disposal incident. The whole thing could have been avoided if the ship's psychiatrist hadn't insisted upon a course of Enya and incense as a treatment for stress. Kryten would be damned if he'd see Rimmer succumb to the space-crazies and start running around with a bin on his head, chanting 'I am a mongoose' over and over again, because he thought his emotions weren't being validated. In the absence of a qualified member of the medical profession, Kryten's prescription consisted of hot chocolate and hugs. Apparently that is what humans enjoyed the most. Even the dead ones.

"Kryten, what the hell are you doing?" Rimmer snapped, as Kryten woodenly wrapped his arms around him and mimed rubbing his face up against the hologramatic uniform. "Stop rubbing your imitation of a face on me. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the groinal attachment."

Kryten let go and looked down sheepishly. "I was merely trying to comfort you, what with all the trunk-burning and all."

"Yes, thank-you for bringing that up. Again." Rimmer closely examined his fingernails. "While we're on the subject, yes he is a smeg-head. A total and utter foreskin-dwelling calcified winnit collection that makes the universe weep with his very existance."

"I wouldn't go that far, Mr Rimmer, sir. I wouldn't call it a  _collection_  of winnits. More like an haphazard drift of sweat infused armpit lint."

"So you're with me on this one then Kryters, old pal?" Rimmer sensed an opportunity.

"Oh, yes. The burning of your camphor-wood trunk to ensure his own survival was a crime against humanity on par with the mutant uprising of '79, the Chelsea holocaust, the Platypus Bay massacre - "

"Yes, alright, alright," Rimmer interrupted the history lesson, "I get the picture, but what I really want is revenge - "

"Revenge, sir?"

"Revenge," Rimmer said in his best Hammer-Horror voice, "and you're going to help me."

"I don't know how you're going to do that. Mr Lister has what they call 'street-smarts'. He's harder to dupe than Miss Marple on good day, Hercule Poirot on - "

"You forget Kryters, that I have something Lister doesn't. Bullying experience."

"But that was on the receiving end, wasn't it sir? I can't see how th - "

"I have an almost unlimited repertoire of dirty tricks up my sleeves. An arsenal of devastating practical jokes."

* * *

Later, when Lister was getting ready for bed, (which, for him, amounted to arranging both his dreadlocks and underpants contents in a more comfortable configuration), he was slightly disconcerted by the vista of Rimmer and Kryten nonchalantly working on yet another jigsaw puzzle at the dining table. "Look, Rimmer," he said. Rimmer always hated it when he pronounced his name 'Rimm-eh,' in that annoying chirpy way of his. "I know we haven't always gotten on, but I'm really impressed with the way you're handling this burning thing. 'Cause, to be honest, I was a bit worried you were going to burn something of mine. Like my bum. Or my hair. Or my bum hair."

"No problem Listie," Rimmer said with false smarm, as he unsuccessfully instructed one of the scutters to move his puzzle piece for him, "we're all adults here. It was a simple misunderstanding. You are after all, the last human being in the universe."

Looking satisfied, and if Rimmer was honest, a little bit impressed, Lister leapt up into his bunk and snuggled down, rearranging his dreads on the pillow so as to not get strangled in his sleep.

Rimmer gave Kryten a big, sneaky, happy smile of hideous revenge conspiracy and, via scutter, put the last piece of the puzzle into place. "Night, night, Listie," he said and clapped off the lights.

* * *

Something was wrong. His face didn't normally feel like this when he woke up. His first thought was that Rimmer had, after all, done something horrible and put acid or glue in his bed. He opened his eyes and rubbed away the usual deposits of crusty mucus. When he tried to move his head, the pillow came with him for a second and then peeled off in a sticky mess.  _I don't remember having a wank_ , he thought. But when he had a closer look and feel he realised it was something quite innocuous. He tasted some of the sticky mass.  _Sugar._  What the smeg? Someone had put icing sugar on his pillow, so that when he hunkered down for some Z's it felt all silky and soft, and then when he fell asleep... Bam! He was snuggling up to syrup made with his own sweat.

"Rimm-eh!" he yelled.

* * *

And it didn't stop there.

On Thursday he woke to a tube of Vagisil replacing his normal toothpaste. Rimmer knew that Thursday was his usual tooth brushing day.

On Friday he picked up his vindaloo-night knife and fork only to find that Rimmer had gotten one of the scutters to heat them up on the hotplate first. He had a permanent fork mark branded into his hand now.

On Saturday he thought he'd figured out a pattern, so he didn't do anything he normally did on that day. Instead, he made his way to the cinema deck where he decided to watch one of his favourite vintage movies;  _Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death._  But it wasn't his movie that appeared on the screen. Rimmer had filmed him doing his trademark dong-dance in the shower. All the scutters were there. They thought it was hilarious. He'd never live that one down. Cat didn't think anything was amiss. "I get it. You were just marking your territory, weren't you buddy?" he said.

On Sunday Lister walked into their quarters and finally confronted Rimmer. "This has got to stop." He threw the tape of his shower dance onto the table.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The practical jokes Rimmer. Sooner or later you're gonna kill me."

Kryten poked his head around the door to see what all the fuss was about. He didn't like conflict. If he had nails he would have bitten them.

"Oh, lighten up Listie. It was nothing serious. Just showing you the old dog's got some tricks left in him yet. It'll be a long time before you destroy something of mine again."

"It's like that, is it? If a power play is what you want, I've got you by the balls, me old china."

Cat had come in now, sniffing around for tidbits. He ignored the other three and preened himself.

"You forget that you already started this with the ritual burning of something that was very important to me. There's nothing you can do to me now that would be worse than that."

"Oh yeah?" said Lister, bringing out a big red button from behind his back.

"Yeah," said Rimmer, less sure of himself now. "What's that?"

"This is a button to turn you off permanently."

"You wouldn't."

"He would," said Kryten, "he's got you by the short and curlies now, sir."

"Stay out of it, you. You helped him. I know all about it." Lister held his mitten-ed hand over the button.

Cat was interested now. "My money's on Brillo-pad hair going down the plughole before the end of the day."

"Don't," Rimmer stretched out his holographic hand, unable to do anything. "I'll do anything you want. I'll stop the pranks, honest."

"Sorry," said Lister, hand still hovering, "it's gonna take more than that to make up for giving me a permanent reminder."

"Holly," said Rimmer desperately, "do something."

"I'm not doing anything, Arn. You got yourself into this. I'm staying impartial. But if you want my advice, you're going to need to give him a quid pro quo."

"Like what?" said Rimmer, "what could I possibly do?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Lister, "do the washing-up for a month - "

"You don't do the washing up anyway," protested Rimmer.

"Yes, but now it _is_  going to get done, isn't it?"

"If you say so," Rimmer conceded, "anything to stop him pressing that button."

"And you are going to wash my dirty underwear."

"What?" There was no way he was going to do that.

"Just agree, sir," said Kryten helpfully, "I'm afraid Mr Lister means business."

"Alright then. I'll wash your dirty underwear."

"And you can serve me afternoon tea on the captain's observation deck every day for a month." Rimmer tried to interrupt, but Lister held up a hand. "And you can call me your..."

"Bitch?" said the Cat.

"Highness, while you're doing it," Lister finishes.

"I suppose I could manage that," said Rimmer, "considering my very existence is at stake."

* * *

That afternoon, on the observation deck, Kryten and the Cat reclined on loungers as Rimmer stood to attention in a holographic waiter's outfit, ordering the scutters around with tea trays and calling Lister 'HRH'. Lister played miniature golf smugly on the astro-turf.

"I say," said Lister, faking a hole in one, "one really must burn things more often."

"Happy now?" said Rimmer.

"Yes, I am actually. I just wanted to see if you would really do it. To see how much you valued your own life."

"I do, as it happens." Rimmer was finally catching on. "Much more than an old trunk."

"Oh, bravo sir," said Kryten, "you've succeeded in bringing this whole fiasco to a cheesey ending. Lesson learned, a'la Frank Capra."

"Which is what I wanted to do all along," said His Royal Highness Sir Lister of Dave. Actually he had no idea it would end like this, he just wanted Rimmer to think he was going to die.

"There's still something I don't understand," said Cat, nibbling on a dainty sardine sandwich, "Was that button real, or not?"

"Of course it wasn't real," said Lister, going for a birdie, "I just relied on Rimmer's own guilt to convince him it was real. I wasn't really going to end his run-time, that would be murder."

"Indeed," said Rimmer, "Space-corps directive number 592 states that since the referendum of 2299, any and all holographic crew members shall be granted the same rights to life as a living one and can expect those rights to be upheld by the law should any threat to his or her personal safety arise."

"Why sir," said Kryten, "I thought directive number 592 said, 'In an emergency situation involving two or more officers of equal rank, seniority will be granted to whichever officer can program a VCR.'"

"Whatever, Encyclopaedia Brittania head." Rimmer waved him off. "Back to work you lot," he said to the scutters.

"Let's treat this as water under the bridge shall we, Rimmer? No hard feelings."

"None whatsoever. We're even now, Listie. But I'll always have the memory of you trying to wash your mouth out with Toilet-Duck to get rid of the taste of a particular women's intimate hygiene product."

"Come to think of it," said Lister, "how do you know so many practical jokes?"

"Those were the tricks his brothers used to bully him with when he was young," explained Kryten.

"Oh, no," said Rimmer, "those were all courtesy of my mum."


End file.
